


Double-Cross

by This_is_your_Heichou_speaking



Series: Cross My Heart [19]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst, As in guns and punching, Character Death, M/M, Violence, this is not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 03:18:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12785793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking/pseuds/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking
Summary: Unbetaed.





	Double-Cross

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed.

He woke up in a dark room - or rather, a dark cellar. It was cold, damp and smelt faintly of rotting leaves, and Harry sat tied to a chair in the middle of it. Immediately, his ears pricked as he tried to gather where he was without giving away his consciousness, but managed to find only that there was someone standing behind him before a voice spoke.  
  
"You needn't feign unconsciousness."  
  
He tensed involuntarily, immediately placing the voice. It had been years since they'd last met or even set eyes on each other, but Harry had never forgotten this man despite his numerous attempts to push him out of his memory.  
  
He still dreamt of him at night. If he didn't know better, he'd guess this _was_  a dream, but unfortunately he _did_  know better.  
  
He straightened, shaking his head a little to move the hair out of his eyes, and tried his bonds. Strong rope, tied in what he knew would be an expert knot tensed around his wrists and refused to loosen. He sighed.  
  
"Barty."  
  
"Hello Harry." The voice had a calm sort of tone - deep, but not too much. Enough to make it obvious he was a man, but comfortable. Friendly. And Harry had always heard it directed at him with just the barest undercurrent of warmth, a little affection seeping through as if it just could _not_  be hidden.  
  
It was frigid now. He swallowed hard, looking over his shoulder. "Barty," he said again. "What am I doing here?"  
  
"Don't play the fool Harry," the man laughed. His footsteps grew closer, slow and measured as the blond man rounded the chair to stand in front of him, his mouth set in a mocking sneer and his eyes angrier than Harry had ever seen them before. And Harry found he was not too proud to admit he was a little scared.  
  
"You're supposed to be in prison," he said quietly, as if speaking too loudly would make the man snap. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"You knew I was out, Harry, I asked you not to play the fool," Barty said, his voice bored. He stepped closer. "You _know_  why I'm here."  
  
There was a pause, then Harry nodded.  
  
"Good." Barty nodded. "Good."  
  
"You're angry with me," Harry laughed. "Of course you are. You must _hate_  me-"  
  
" _Hate_  you, Harry?" Barty scoffed. "No, Harry, no. Do you have _any_  idea what you subjected me to? What you _did_  to me? No wait," he continued before Harry could say anything, "of course you did. You're the one that ratted me out. You're the one who-" he choked up. Harry sat, staring at him silently as the man collected himself.  
  
"I want to make you pay, Harry," he said softly. "But not quite here." With these words he walked around again, and Harry had barely enough time to register the snick of a knife before the ropes around his wrists went slack.  
  
He moved his hands forward, rubbing at the red marks left behind, but before he could do anything else Barty had grabbed him by the collar, pulled him up and punched him across the face.  
  
He gasped, his head cracking to the side as his cheek exploded in pain. He barely registered where Barty was dragging him, only realising they'd arrived where they were supposed to when Barty shoved him to the floor.  
  
"Do you know this place?" the man asked, putting his hands on his hips as he surveyed the room with feigned nonchalance. "You should, but I don't really know if you do, see. I have no idea if you even gave enough of a shit."  
  
Harry pushed himself up until he was in some semblance of a sitting position. He looked around, but his eyes kept watering and making everything blurry. As he blinked fast to rid himself of them, Barty lost his patience and strode closer, leaning down and taking a hold of his hair.  
  
He couldn't help but cry out as the man gripped the hair in one hand and pulled him up. He was dizzy from the punch earlier, and his lip tasted of copper, but he still managed to look Barty in the eyes as the man glared him down.  
  
"You took the one thing I cared about," he growled, pulling a little harder on the handful he had a grasp of. "You were the only person I trusted, Harry, and you _turned_  on me!"  
  
His voice rose until he was shouting by the end, and he tossed Harry away to crash into the wall in his anger. The younger man straightened slowly, trying to ignore the pain in his head and his chest and his heart. "I did," he said, his voice hoarse from screaming. "I _did_ , and you should know why-"  
  
"They _killed_  my baby boy!" the man turned and shouted, his grey eyes so bright with rage that Harry had to close his eyes for a second to even dare go on. "You were the only person to even _know_  he existed. You _squealed_ , didn't you."  
  
And his heart felt like it was going to rip a hole straight through his chest, but he nodded anyway. "I did," he repeated, and maybe he sounded like he was going to cry but Barty didn't care, not now.  
  
"And because of _you_ , they-" he broke off, turning his face away as if to control himself and then shouted wordlessly, kicking Harry in the ribs hard enough to make him collapse again.  
  
He didn't make a sound this time, but clutched at his chest as if to keep the pain contained. Slowly, he got back up, and Barty watched pitilessly he did.  
  
"There's something you don't know," he said, and it wasn't even an attempt to gain forgiveness. It was too late now, Harry had been so cruel and how did this all go so wrong? He braced a hand against the wall, raised his head. "There's something else. That boy-"  
  
"They jeered at me, Harry," Barty hissed, "tortured me and laughed at me about how I couldn't even protect _him_."  
  
"I _know_ , I know." He closed his eyes, and they stung so oddly, almost as if he'd been staring at a bright light too long. As if he'd been awake for far too long, tired eyes and tired mind. "Barty, he sat right here when those pictures were taken, and then." He gasped, trying to regain his breath. "And then two hours later he was on a plane with nobody the wiser."  
  
Barty froze, his eyes widening as he stared at Harry. Then, in a flurry of motion his hand was tangled in the front of Harry's shirt and the blond man had pushed him into the wall hard once, twice. "How do you know? You were gone by then, you'd done your job and left us." Abandoned us.  
  
Harry shook his head. "No, Barty. I- I was the one holding the gun."  
  
"He's alive?" The man's eyes flashed. "You- he's alive? You let me believe he was dead this whole time?"  
  
"I had to do _something_ ," he whispered. "And I'm so sorry for everything they told you, for every night you spent mourning him, but I couldn't keep it a secret forever. They'd have found out about him eventually, and then where would we be? Where would _he_  be? So I took responsibility, I took those photos and passed him off as dead-"  
  
"You're lying," Barty said, his voice strangely tight. He shook his head, closer by his eyes for a good long while. "You're lying. Why are you lying, Harry?"  
  
Harry didn't reply, just stared at him wordlessly as the man shook his head again. " _Why_? I thought you loved me, you know? I-" he took a shuddering breath. "But you still play with me like this. I didn't realise you could _be_  this cruel."  
  
Harry brought his hand up and covered the tense knuckles where Barty's fist still clutched at his collar. "I wouldn't," he whispered, and if he was crying now, who cared anymore? "I wouldn't. Not about this. They'd have done such things to him, Barty, and he was just a _boy_." He shook his head, trying to regain control of his emotions. "Of course I couldn't let them touch him!" he shouted suddenly. "Of course I couldn't let them get their _filthy_  hands on him! He _trusts_  me, he _loves_  me-"  
  
Barty nodded, swallowed by hard, then suddenly focused on Harry. "You know where he is."  
  
Harry froze, his lips parting in surprise as he stared at Barty. "Y-yes, I do."  
  
"Then take me to him. I want to see him."  
  
He supposed he should have expected that, but even as Barty advanced on him he shook his head. "No," he replied, his tone brooking no argument. "I can't do that."  
  
"Why the fuck not?" Barty growled out, his fingers tightening into fists. "He's _my_  kid, I want-"  
  
"I can't," Harry repeated coldly. "I can't take that risk."  
  
The man's expression changed immediately. "I wouldn't let anyone _hurt_  him, Harry-" he started, and sounded almost like he was begging, but still Harry stubbornly shook his head.  
  
"And who's going to protect him from you?" he asked quietly. "From your influence?"  
  
Silence, then, "what?" Barty said quietly.  
  
"Look at you, Barty," Harry replied as the man's fist loosened and let him down. "The first thing you did after escaping prison was to find me, to murder people to get to me. You let everyone know you were back and just as prepared to commit your crimes as before and-" he took a breath, slowing himself down. "I remember what you wanted with him too, how you wanted him to follow in your footsteps, but that's not okay."  
  
"You mean to say, you're telling me you know better?" Barty asked, his tone dangerously soft. Harry shivered, but whilst he admitted to his fear, he also knew that he'd take it all to keep that boy safe.  
  
"He's happy, well-adjusted. He's growing up big and strong and healthy, he has friends and interests and is doing great in school and Barty, you'll destroy everything he's built. You'll force him to be someone he's not and I can't help you do it."  
  
He laughed self-depreciatingly, shaking his head. "Not even if you would kill me for it."  
  
Barty was silent a while, staring at Harry with a blank, expressionless face. His eyes seemed almost like steel, grey and strong and absolutely unwilling to tell Harry anything. Then the man breathed in and nodded.  
  
"I see," he murmured, almost like a disappointed teacher with his student. He looked away, to the side, almost as if lost in thought. "Even if I changed?" he said softly, and Harry knew then that he'd looked away to maintain some semblance of pride.  
  
There was nothing more insulting to Barty Crouch Jr. than for him to admit a weakness.  
  
Harry bit his lip, and felt the tug in chest. He wanted to, so badly - a part of him had even dared fantasise, in the darkest hours, of the three of them happy and together. 'A _real_  family,' he scoffed internally, and it really was a joke because what did Harry know of family? What did he know of parenting or caring for children, of building homes?  
  
But he found himself helpless to admit that he'd only ever been happy with the two of them - his lover and his son, in the small hours of the afternoon and evening when they could pretend nothing was amiss.  
  
When Harry could pretend that Barty wasn't a high profile criminal, and that he wasn't an undercover cop sleeping with the enemy.  
  
And so, even when it made him want to stab himself, he shook his head softly. "You won't change, Barty," he whispered. "You didn't when your father put you in prison, or when your dying mother begged you to stop. You didn't when I asked you to for your son or when your father died for you, so why now?  
  
"Sure, you love your son, Barty, and I know that. Believe me I _know_. But more than that, you don't see that you're wrong, that what you're doing is _wrong_ -"  
  
"And you're the perfect candidate to judge that?" he interrupted, his voice so filled with quiet anger that Harry couldn't help but flinch.  
  
He shrugged instead, smiling bitterly. "Like I said, Barty, you can kill me if you want."  
  
The man stared at him, his eyes wide and his mouth open as he looked at Harry incredulously. " _Why_ , Harry?" he asked as if he were truly at a loss. He stepped closer and framed Harry's face with his hands, pressing gently against him. Slowly he pressed a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth, so achingly sweet that Harry couldn't help but imagine a time when they'd honestly been in love with each other, and when Harry had lied to himself enough to convince himself that he really was just a student who'd fallen in love with another man.  
  
"Don't you _want_  to be happy? Don't you want us to be together, like we used to be?" And indeed Harry did, so, _so_  badly. Despite everything Barty had done, all the people he'd robbed and slaughtered mercilessly, he still loved him endlessly. And he wondered if that didn't make him just as bad himself, that he could stand to love such a man. He wondered if it didn't make him just as guilty that his heart wanted nothing more that to give in, and that he was _actually considering it_ -  
  
But no. He thought about all the people he'd saved, all the children with parents who'd survived Barty's hit list, and the sunny smile of a boy who was his son in all but blood, who looked exactly like his father in all but the beautiful, loving brown of his eyes, and he imagined what a life with a crime Lord father would do to him. He imagined how that happy smile would be locked away, how those expressive eyes would be shuttered until all that remained was hatred and resentment and-  
  
"No." His eyes were shut tight against the images but they kept coming, kept hurting, and he was crying thick, heavy tears but what did he care? Barty had seen it all anyway, could read his fear and desperation and sorrow and _love_  like a book anyway, so what sense did it make to try and hide it?  
  
"I'm so sorry," he whispered, "because I would love nothing more than to wake up with you and love both you and him with every bone in my body for the rest of my life but I can't. I'm sorry."  
  
He didn't open his eyes as the silence stretched and his words faded, or even as slow footsteps lead away from him and then back with meaningful purpose. He just remained there, leaning against the cold cement wall as if he were stuck there, unable to move.  
  
Barty came to stand in front of him again, and there was a beat before Harry felt pain blooming up from his stomach, making him bend over the fist in his stomach. His eyes opened of their own accord, and when he saw the cold look if Barty's face sudden fear engulfed him, and he understood.  
  
He was going to die here.  
  
"Won't you fight back, Harry?" Barty said, but even the jeering time he usually reserved for his more personal victims was absent, his voice flat even as he tried to humiliate Harry. "Are you so helplessly _weak_  that you're just going to _take it_?"  
  
But Harry didn't say another word, even as his skin bloomed red and purple and black, or when his vision became red with his own blood and blocked the sight of Barty's terrifyingly twisted face.  
  
Terrifying not because it was fearsome, but because of the pain etched into every line of it. And Harry hated himself then, because he'd done that.  
  
Why couldn't he simply have lied to himself?  
  
And when Barty took out a gun, looking down at him as if it was his own life he was ending, Harry smiled through the cuts on his face and whispered, "forgive me," before everything ended.  
  
And Barty stayed there and cried over him for hours, sat there until he became cold to the touch, and buried his stiff body himself. But Harry didn't know that, because Harry was gone.  
  
And he wasn't ever coming back.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Emily Prentiss' story in criminal minds.


End file.
